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No matter how firm my pure mind insists on waiting after the baptism of years, it always brushes past a life and a life long time of waiting.
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The time for waiting is too long, too long. And, maybe , all of our lives are spent on the continual waiting.
The song of the hometown is a flute, clear but far away, which always sounds at night when there is a moon. A boy, with some roved exciting, went out without returning, without understanding anything about homesickness. Time flied. He began to miss his parents and wanted to go back. But it was too late. And it was very difficult for him to do so because of his family and his job. Thus, he could only make a cup of black coffee, with some vague distraction, with tears in his eyes at the night full of moonlight. He could only taste the sadness and the homesickness from the coffee, waiting for the day of reunity…
Waiting, a naive child waiting anxiously for the day when he grows up;
Waiting, an impatient girl waiting in the rain for her best friend who is late for the appointment;
Waiting, a young employee, working hard, waiting for the opportunity of promotion;
Waiting, a mid-age man waiting for the bus, which arrives late, to go to work;
Waiting, an old woman, sitting outside her house alone, waiting silently for her son's coming back;
Waiting, a dying man, laying on the bed, waiting for the God to end his rough life;
Waiting, a wriggled little life waiting for its beginning of life in its mother's abdomen;
Waiting, waiting for a friend who you will not meet again, waiting for a phone-call which will not ring again, waiting for a promise which will never come true waiting, waiting, spending this life in the waiting.
Waiting, I would like to cache all my stories about waiting underground, waiting for the time when they will be spread all over the world.
No matter how firm my pure mind insists on waiting after the baptism of years, it always brushes past a life and a life long time of waiting. |